The Song of Valyria
by BlueStarlightWriter
Summary: "She fell asleep that night dreaming of fire. By the dawn she sailed for Meereen. Only in the city were dragons ruled would Velleya find her answers, where the truth of her destiny would unfold." She was part of a ritual by slavers and now holds a creature believed lost to time. All she can do is follow the Lord of Light, with a warlock as her only ally. OC x OC
1. Red Sails to a Distant Land

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 **The Song Of Valyria  
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Chapter One: Red Sails to a Distant Land

It had been seven dawns a-sea since her leave from the trading ports of Volantis.

She remembered the time unwarmheartedly, though the shadow she adorned like a foul burden did not seem to value it as such. She remembered trading her coin purse with a mariner by the docks, remembered worrying her lip and testing her blade when he had counted each stray honor despite her pleading to hurry, biting the coin for authenticity before returning it to the delicate velvet purse in which it had come from. She remembered boarding one of the smaller vessels _\- The Lusty Corsair -_ and looking back upon the towering stone watch-towers of the city, spying the distant mansions curling in rows beneath them as grey forms that faded among the shadows of nightfall, when the sun settled across the western mountains.

Despite the blood beneath the golden glamour, the city truly was beautiful: a true relic to Old Valyria with its palaces, temples and cloisters with two halves of a long bridge connecting it to the mainland. The entirety of the hold lay guarded by walls of ashen dragon-stone. Yet, she could not help the wave of uncertainty that befell her that night when gazing upon it. The memories it held were no longer glistening, more like jewels riddled in cracks.

The mariner had stowed her away among his crates of fine wares, kegs of ale and barrels fringed in fishtails, while he in turn collected his men from the shores, readying the sails and retrieving the anchor. The great, white bells of the temples sung out to the higher and lower tiers of the city. Then, there was an unfamiliar stirring within the dozing heart, in the quiet warrens and ivy-enmeshed courtyards, from the many inn-keeps and brothels to the guardhouse.

She remembered the distant flares of the awakened that nipped at the skies and heard the many sounds of men, elephant and tiger answering the call, as doves fled from their rookeries. She and her guide had fallen to the barracks and waited for the calls to die. The ship had left soon after, setting out across the western shores of Valyria to the Summer Sea, only to settle after a long journey in Elyria, were the exports were less fancy, but prices just as rich.

From where she sat along the stern of the sea-vessel, Elyria seemed no different from her birthplace: a little less extravagant, the towers not as pointed, the temples not as shimmering in the sun, the mansions made of sandstone instead of quarried rock, but there seemed to be less beggars on the streets, none scurrying across the stalls in search of stale mutton or flee-ridden fruit at least, and the people seemed to be fine company, even offering her shade from the sun.

"It's cooler here," Velleya whispered, tugging the sides of her shawl back to see the water beneath the Lusty Corsair more clearly. "I feel like I can breathe without having to taste sweat, and the air no longer smells of perfume and rotten flowers, though the fish smell is more pungent here. Still, it's nice, not… terrible. I like it."

"I'm surprised you hadn't ventured far from this ship, dear one, you truly are missing the splendors that is a foreign land," said the warlock, examining the curious oddities he had gathered from the market stalls using a rather peculiar loupe. He brought a ruby ring to his eye, tilting the loupe in a manner of directions while it reflected the light, before curling back his blue lip and flicking it overboard, scrunching his hooked nose when he heard the minor shatter of the water. "Should have known. Glass."

"How did you happen upon these treasures when our gold is so little?" she asked, dangling her feet over the ship's side, gently petting the writhering lump over her legs. "Did you ask it of your Red God, or use your conjuring? Or do you warlocks worship some other god? I've yet to wonder."

"I cannot speak for all warlocks, my dear, that would be ill-advised and would lead to many a-lie that I cannot be bothered rectifying should we ever cross one. Should you ask such inventive questions, either. But, to sate your curiosity, aye, I follow R'hllor, and no, he does not intervene in that way. And before you ask, a man can follow many gods, not just one."

"Then you used your tricks? Magic."

"No, dear one. Something far better."

Velleya observed the warlock curiously, stiffening a little when he dared to step over to her, his lilac robe of many symbols stirring through the wind. He knelt by her side, tilted her chin with a bony finger and with his other hand, tugged her shawl loose.

"What are you doing?" she asked, shuffling away until his free hand caught her hip, steadying her.

"Your shawl is creased," said he, thinning the ripples from the rose-tinted fabric. He combed the stray curls from the braids in her hair and touched the iron rings tasseling the ends. Once satisfied, he returned the shawl to the tip of her brow, covering her pale skin in shadows. "There we go, all done."

"You still haven't told me how you got so many trinkets, Leviar."

The warlock frowned, smoothing his hand along his left arm, only to tug from the long sleeve a curiously-wrought silver necklace.

Velleya's eyes widened. She reached up to her neck, only to find her chest bare of the ornament. She reached out again and he let her claim it, grasping her hand, laying the necklace across her palm and curling her fingers into her chest. "Misdirection. Always follow one's hands, dear one, never just the eyes. The eyes are clear to motive, aye it is true, but the hands are the ones that do the stealing."

She stared at the necklace a moment, idly following the links of the chain with her fingers. "And you took the jewels from the market."

He shrugged, returning to full height and hooking his hands behind his back. "Taken, aye, a term I prefer. Neither a lie nor truly the truth, or merely a part of the truth. Never did like the word 'steal', it suggests that my hands happened upon something that belonged to another, and perhaps it did, once, a year or so ago, but I can tell you now, no merchant in this city has sold something that did not once belong to another. It's the wheel of the world, young one. Someday, the clothes on your back or the rings in your hair will wind up in the hands of a thief, and that thief will sell it for bread, and while he gets fat from the loaf, the buyer will then sell that on to a higher bidder and so forth. Quite a quaint little operation, if I do say so myself. Ah, the wonders of the world."

"And yet you use parlour tricks instead of your own magic, like a common thief?"

"Why waste such valuable energy taking something that can just as easily… slip into my pockets unnoticed, hmm? Exactly, maybe save your questions for when we sail to Meereen. Wouldn't want all of the world's mysteries to spoil."

The young lady gave a small nod, sensing the subtle shift in her lap. She looked down upon the bundle of woollen fabric, the creature within raising the fabric over her inner thigh, while its tail flicked from side to side, folding and flattening it over her knee. Sensing the low rumble of its under-belly, she quietly slipped her hand under the sack and stroked its head, feeling the rough texture of its tiny scales pricking her fingers.

"How is he?"

The tiny head of the reptilian peeked from the shroud and followed her fingers, nuzzling her palm. His eyes were silver like the moon, brighter than any star she had seen in the sky. Yet his muzzle was long and stocky, layered in grey and white scales. Her mouth pressed thin in worry. "He's restless. Has been since we left the harbour. I'm not sure I know what I'm doing. I cannot tell if he is hungry, thirsty or needs attention. And I cannot ask a farmer how he settles his animals because he is anything but a normal animal."

"Aye, my knowledge is lacking in that department as well," Leviar said, clutching his chin and staring narrowly at the planks beneath his boots. "Surely the Mother of Dragons can give us some insight into what to do with the wee thing."

The lady's frown deepened immeasurably, creasing her soft, pale face. She tied her necklace loosely around her neck and glanced into the water beneath the bow, as did her tiny dragon. He chirped at the shimmer of fish scales lurking under the surface, his tail flicking back and forth far swifter than usual. Yet all she seemed to notice was how the sunlight made dazzling reflections on the water, ripples stretching the shimmers far. Her mind lay on the thought of the Queen of Meereen and their meet.

She imagined her tiny dragon taken from her and wondered how far the depths of his screams would reach in the night before killing her. "She could take him from me, this dragon queen. If the rumours are true and she already has three fully grown then what is to prevent her from taking a fourth? She has the ruling will of a queen, it is said, her temper as harsh as the fires her dragons harbour, her greed perhaps immeasurably so. I could find a boat and sail away, far away, a place where slavers could never touch me, a place where I'd be free, never having to cater to a lord or triarch. I could raise him."

"If such a place existed and you did manage to live away from the kingdoms, how would you care for him? What would you do when he begins demanding larger variants of meat? Kills a child instead of a goat? Hmm? What will you do when his wings reach the width of the land and he takes flight to distant shores, or, hah, even across the entire brine itself, lass? Only raising the awareness of the many that another ancient creature does indeed breathe in this world! Tell me, dear one, for I truly find myself curious."

"I still don't know why you're with me," she whispered, suddenly wary, tugging her small bundle a little nearer to her chest. "My master is dead. His house will have been taken by another family, his estate sold, his sigil burned and riches forgotten. I am free."

"Free, may be true, but lest us forget who it was who got us out of that trouble, hmm? Who's coin purse you traded, who's life you owe and who helped bring that hatchling into existence. You need me, and like it or not, you will not last without my guidance. You said it yourself, you have never been anywhere else but Volantis. You knew the streets, the inn-keeps, the taverns, but you never set foot outside that city," he hissed, his eyes strange and shadowed when he stepped closer.

"You and I both know that staying with me is the only chance you have, and that hatchling is a conundrum we cannot protect alone. He looks to you for safety. Aye, leaving your side may very well kill him, and I will not let either of you out of my sight while the slavers hound our steps like a scarab to flesh. Do I make myself clear?"

The warlock bent to her level; his eyes met hers, the colour reminding her of a scarab beetle alit in flame. Shadows loured them, high cheek bones hollowed his face, and with only a shroud to hide the scars on his scalp, for a brief moment, he truly did seem fearsome.

The corner's of her mouth twitched, nearly a smile, though there was no joy behind it. "Yes, ser."

He nodded, standing straight and casting his gaze out the remainder of the harbour. "Enough unpleasantness. I shall speak to the mariner, we might leave this harbour before night falls upon us. Perhaps you should peruse the wares before we part? I can see it in your eyes, you yearn to leave this ship."

Velleya shook her head. "The next city I will. Leaving this place might not be the right idea, not now at least."

"As you wish. Do mind yourself. I expect to see you below deck when the sun crests the towers, understood?"

"I will be here, for how long depends on if you return."

The warlock regarded her for a moment, long enough for her to sense the cogs turning in his mind, trying it would seem to figure her out. He fled the edge of the ship, gliding over the ramp towards the pier. He shifted through the crowds of peasants, fishermen and sailors with such fluency that a trained mercenary from Braavos may have had trouble following his lead. It was not long before he disappeared entirely in the sea of leather rags and fluorescent cloths, and she was left alone, though not completely.

Velleya returned to stroking the tiny dragon in her lap, feeling the crisp coldness of his scales and the light thin web of his skin when he trapped her hand beneath his wing, nipping lightly at her nail with his fang. She smiled despite herself, curling her finger in to tickle his neck. Her future remained more uncertain than it ever had been to her. Born to a family of slavers, she never had the true worry of not knowing her own fate, for it had always been declared to her by another. Being the subject of change had her senses catching every little sound, from the crewman swabbing the deck to the gulls circling the nets. Her hand often grazed the end of her thigh if any dared to near her, the sheathe bound to it seeming to thrum, demanding her touch. But in the end she quietly lifted her dragon up in her arms and returned to the lower decks, claiming a silent corner away from the merry chants of above, until the night came for them.

And when night did come, and when _the Lusty Corsair_ drifted silently among the waves, clattering along the pier every half-hour - uncurling the rope and stretching the tethers, she awoke in her cabin to the accumulation of whispers, words deeply accented and said in a voice sounding ancient, wise, but not derived from the common tongue. From her rope-hung bed she spied a figure drawn to the odd shadows, thrown by the weak glow of a distant lantern hooked onto an oaken beam, along with faded banners and great dull cloth. Queer marks were engraved onto the floorboards, black etchings and decorated whale bones creating a vivid star-shaped rune, held within two rings. There was a man in the centre, seen only by the arch of his cowl and the crossing of his knees. She knew who it was, the warlock whom sat over a dormant brazier with a shaky script clutched between bony fingers. She observed how Lavier ghosted his hand over the iron, breathing warmth into the night. And by the dead wood, small lilac flames flickered from the depths until the entire brazier ignited in fire, lighting a jagged scar along his jawline - a fresh cut, still weeping.

Velleya clutched her robe to her, biting deep into the cotton and staring into the depths of the fire, seeing figures dancing within. The warlock shifted through the ashes with a poker, searching for a vision that would make sense to him, though his brows only grew more taut, his blue lips thinning into a scowl.

Yet Velleya saw more than he, spying the formation of an ancient city rising into existence - twisted spires jutting like scorched bones into the sky, shining when the great, waxy moon rose into the deep velvet of the night, whilst winged creatures glided through the glassless panes. The image faded, replaced by a man playing a gold-and-silver chased flute on a riverboat, pausing only for a moment to observe the sea. After that, a final vision surfaced, one of a dagger embedded into the map of Essos, dug into the landmark of Quarth. The blade was coated in blood, dripping from the hilt.

Once the colours begun to fade, the visions disappeared; the fire vanquished. The warlock plucked the bones from the rune, dropped them into a satchel and tied it to his waist. He then dipped his hands into a bucket and cleansed the charcoal marks from the floor before leaving the cabin, not to return until the morn.

She fell asleep that night dreaming of fire.

By dawn they had sailed for Meereen. Only in the city were dragons ruled would Velleya find her answers, where the truth of her destiny would unfold.

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	2. Meereen

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 **The Song Of Valyria**

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Chapter Two: Meereen

The wind of the sea grew colder the further north they sailed. Four more days at sea and by the turn of the fifth night, the distant radiance of torchlight and shadowed land glistened from the isle to the water on the horizon. By the stroke of dawn's first light the _Lusty Corsair_ had calmly glided past the grand, golden harpies of the crossing point, drifting with the flight of gulls into Slavers Bay. Beyond that was a miraculous sight.

 _Meereen_.

The most ancient of the northernmost cities in Essos, crowned by six pyramids built upon the southern-faced foothills of a great mountain. The glistening golden spires were rumoured to be seen even as far as Westeros itself. It looked beautiful… and deadly, like a nettle, harmless along the stem, but poisonous on the leaf.

The mariners had awoken long before the morn. When the wind began to die, the ropes were stretched taut between the masts; the sails drooped, then fell limp from their holdings, while the oars were soon manned in the galley, groaning under the strain of the waves thrashing against the bow. Yet the ship paled in comparison to the cogs, brigs and carracks bound along the pier, bountiful in imported timber, steel and hide from the south, only to be carried from their decks to carts strewn up by mules, set on a white-sanded road leading to the great, arched gates of the city's outer wall.

It was a white-stone monument to the city's stubbornness from many ancient wars. Some of the wall had been gauged or had crumbled away from the pillars connecting it to the rest, and some areas had been beaten into darker shades, like earthly bruises. But it had survived the tide of harsh summer weathers, cruel erosions of the Bay, the countless wars of slaving nations and even the unruly justice of a Dragon Queen.

 _It was made to stand the braces of time,_ thought Velleya, _and it will be here long after I am bone in the sand._

She had dreamt of seeing a foreign land since she was of a young age. She remembered staring through the glistening silver panes of her master's household, with a quill in one hand and a tome of foreign history in the other, purchased one night by a merchant she had long lost the name of. But from that time she dreampt of far away isles, fictitious beasts and despairing romances.

When she saw Meereen, however, vast that it was, she could not ease the quivering of her fingers in her lap, or the restless sleep that had accompanied her the night before.

Much unlike her warlock, whom leaned along the taffrail, staring into the approaching land with an eager smirk on his lips, while the edges of his robe flared from the long cuffs. "Ah, Meereen! The sandy gem of the slave trade, or was before the Mother of Dragons overthrew the Masters. I have been meaning to return here for quite some time. The wine is quite exquisite," Leviar sang, hands clasped behind his back, the ship settling into the port.

Her dragon stirred in her lap, sensing her discomfort. She petted the cloth hiding him and heard a quiet purr, as he curled in on himself. "I have no ties to Meereen. Where will we stay?"

"I have thought of all, dear one, do not worry your wee head. I know a few of importance, those that have taken a remarkable benefit to the new way of things."

Velleya nervously licked her lips, tugging her shawl farther over her face as the sunlight rose past the pier. "So, no masters?"

"Aye, no masters. The only ones we need to worry about are many miles away."

She spied a boat of rowing men beneath the deck, hooks and tethers trailing behind in the water. There were buckets of maggots and worms in the aft, wriggling. A worrying thought tugged at her mind. "Spiders can cross the sea," she whispered, "so can slavers."

"Aye, but most do not leave their webb. Meereen is a thriving city, many cannot be trusted, but it is far harder for a spider to find a fly when it hides amongst a nest of ants. If they happen to find a fleeing slave in a city full of rebels, then perhaps they deserve to find us."

 _The_ _Lusty_ _Corsair_ was soon tied up to the smallest pier by the edge of the harbour. The bitter taste of sea-salt freshened the air, while the cries of white and black gulls circled the local fisheries, pinching fins from the stalls and heads from the baskets. Imported crates of berries, cloth and spirits were carried by many sailors to the higher end of the road of mule carts, yet many women were seen lingering by the rocks of the beach holding vine-hewn hampers, salvaging oysters and cockles from the shore.

Velleya rose from the deck, smoothing the wrinkles from her robe. Her dragon crawled its way up to her shoulders, bunching the shawl and knotting her braids. She calmed the creature down, parting her hair with her fingers for his little head to rest in the nook. He squeaked, then folded his wings over her shoulders, clutching her skin tight, and ringed his tail over her underarm until his scaled hide covered her completely, letting the end of the tail hang like a noose down her back.

Once settled, Velleya strapped her satchel over her bare shoulder and followed the warlock from the floating wreck of timber, marvelling how paler the water was beneath the creaking boards and how the heat of the sun did not feel as overbearing as it had back in Volantis.

There were clouds in the sky, small and feathery across a vale the shade of lapris. The sun was smaller in contrast, though it had barely risen over the mountain - a star left from the night, not yet near enough to bathe the world in a honeyed glare, but close enough to stir the birds awake for their first meal and for the rats to scurry from their dens to the bowls of the ships.

After passing the harbour the two companions had managed to catch a cart heading towards the city, and for the majority of the morn they rode by herds of men, women and cattle walking the same way.

It was quite a while before the rickety old thing entered Meereen, buildings and towers thatched from stone and roofed with slate shimmering white in the heat of the midday. By then the sun had risen to the highest point in the sky and the only shadows to speak of were born from drapes hung over the street; often shivering in the wind. The streets were quieter than the waterfront, especially when Lavier and Velleya had abandoned their cart in the marketplace and journeyed alone, pacing up many different stairways in order to get to the second, more grand quarter of the city.

It was said that Meereen harboured residents of slavers and slaves, both living together in a frail but somehow lasting union of peace. The distinctions in nobility were still present, though. The higher they journeyed, the fewer people Velleya saw in tattered rags barely concealing their nakedness, and the more noble families she saw dressed in vibrant silken robes, particularly in hues of gold and blue that she had seen being bought from the harbour. There was more merriment in the city, more cheer, less scrambling for scraps in the gutters and less odours of boiling leather and sweaty flesh.

She hated that she preferred the refined appearance of higher Meereen to the lower districts, for she had once been a low-born. Yes, her master had been rich and her life with him rich as well, but she had often been sent to do tasks for low slaves, tasks that had left her grateful of her position. But that was no longer the case. Only with the stolen riches of her warlock could she afford what other slaves could not.

Their journey ended outside one door of many, stretched across a street of attached buildings built from grey rock, distinguished by lavishly painted signs, radiant curtains and mosaic tapestry. The doorway they stood from was one full of moaning and laughter, with the light stringing of a harp playing within.

Velleya looked up to see the signpost swaying, painted with the image of a naked woman playing a harp. The name read, _'The_ _Brazen_ _Lotus_.'

Lavier paused outside the doorway. "And here we are. My contact should be inside."

"This is a brothel," said Velleya, frowning. "Why are we here?"

The warlock screwed up his pointed nose, withdrawing his hood to look it over. "A brothel is simply a tavern with less clothing. It holds many secrets, including ourselves, for now. In an establishment such as this, you will disappear. Think of it as a type of concealment, a glamour, until your audience with the queen."

"So long as I do not need to work here then I will be fine."

"Hold no fear, dear one. They will smell it as soon as we enter."

The inside of the Brazen Lotus was a darkly lit palace of shady men and dancing serving ladies; the women dressed elegantly in diaphanous skirts with straps of pink, braided cloth strapping their breasts tight to their chests. Shadows guttered all throughout the chamber and hooded figures claimed the cornered tables. Only the glint of their tankards and platters of food could raise the awareness of their whereabouts, though the lingering fumes of berry juice barely masked the stench of sweat and dried blood wafting from their perches.

They were sellswords, Velleya realised, when she carefully parted the brothel's curtain, spying the longswords, dirks, knives and leather tunics. The nasty scars grazing their chiselled faces were even distinctive: slashes across the cheeks representing battles with tigers, gauges across the jaws for a war with bears. It marked them apart from the smaller, less-armoured men on the benches further down the way, those who traded japes and the ocassional spiel, tossing their coin over a checkered board in an attempt to gain some small reward.

Many of the men had women on their laps, stroking their hair and kissing their beards away from the candlelight, all the while listening to a minstrel poised upon a stool in the centre of the chamber, humming a gentle, foreign tune. She was beautiful in the strangest sort of way: amber eyed and tanned with hair the colour of red blossom. She wore copper rings in her ears and a dress the shade of a blooming iris flower, revealing and concealing much of her figure.

While Velleya and Lavier settled within, the lady had begun to sing a soft ballad, strumming her harp with long, dainty fingers. Yet when Velleya chose a table to sit at, far from the presence of others, she quickly found the lady's focus drifting to her as she sung. The peculiarly soft fragrance of lemons filled her nose soon after.

She glanced down at the tankard of water in her hands, tapping the rim with her fingernails. The water was clear, cold, and she could not prevent the contempted sigh when it touched her dry lips.

Leviar had purchased a bottle of blackberry red, much to the onlook of a few grey-cloaks when his purse hit the counter. It was not long before one of the serving maids cavorted around the bar, rattling by the coins threaded into her waist-belt, and handed it to him: a swollen black decanter, corked and tied by a red ribbon.

He poured the wine into a tall glass, then swirled it around until he was satisfied the flavour had left the base. The warlock brought the glass up to his nose and sniffed, wrinkling his brows before tasting it. "Hmm. Disappointing. It tasted far better years ago. A shame," he said, casting it aside, "when splendours spoil."

Velleya scratched her tankard, staring at the warlock sceptically. "I've met few worshippers of the Red God, ser, save for the one that practised sermons in my master's home. I cannot say that I have met one so acquainted in the taste of wine."

He gave her a tight-lipped grin. "It's a gift, 'tis all it is. If there was a God that promised a lifetime of wine, I'd change faith in a heartbeat. Sadly, I have yet to meet such a God, one of wine who would praise my drunken spouts at least. I did know of one fellow, an old maester who sought such comforts. Aye, they named him the Lord of Debauchery, though his vices were only rumour, never enough to get his healing chains removed. He woke one morning tied to the front end of a ship with half a fish covering his lower… his _sadder_ half. They called him the Drooping Sea-Wench. He truly was a poor figurehead. They burned the ship not long after."

"I'm sorry, what do you mean by debauchery?"

Lavier grinned. "Sex, dear lass! Tits, scanderlous legs, endless bottle swilling and much deflowering. Surely you have heard of it? The devilled perversions? Even a maester can procure such luxuries once his research goes quiet. R'hllor's mercy, even the Grand Maester at the Citadel is known for some scanderlous fruit-picking."

"I… see, so what happened to your interesting tutor?"

"Turned to ale, I fear. And died from an infection born from the fish scales, I believe, though it was very long ago. He taught alchemy. Tested it himself too. Come to think of it, it might be why he grew so fond of it, and why his face was often blue."

Leviar diverted his eyes, glancing from the drunkards by the entranceway to the few sell-swords shadowed within private chambers of the brothel, concealed by hanging drapes folding over thinner curtains. Velleya could see their sillouhettes through the material and tried to hide the blush that bloomed in her cheeks.

 _She should not have been in such a place._

The warlock took one more sip of the blackberry red, then quietly stood. Noticing her hesitance, he thought a moment and nudged the wine to her. "My treat. You appear quite miserable and I will not have it seem like I'm the culprit. I shall not be long, but do not leave this table, understood?"

She gave a small nod, wafting his tankard aside then retaking her own, firm in her grasp.

He soon turned to leave, passing candlelight and dispersing into the shadows. The young lady took another sip of her water, feeling the cold press of the surface sting her tongue. She half-wondered how the water was so cold, for surely ice was more than rare to keep in such warm weather, especially in a city were only a few merchants had returned offering trade.

"Refreshing, is it not, when the water kisses your lips?"

Velleya coughed into her tankard, "I'm sorry?"

"The water. Divinely wouldn't you say?"

It was the blossom-haired minstrel who spoke, one who stood at the side of the table, far from her perch and harp. In the flickering lustre of the tallow candles, her dark skin and pink cheeks seemed to glow, but it was her eyes that unnerved the Volantene girl, gold and bright, far too bright, far too curious. Velleya tried to ignore the suspicious inkling, glancing around the brothel for any sign of Leviar.

The minstrel smiled, kindly.

She quietly nodded. "I-I suppose so. Yes, divinely."

"Would you like to hear of how the water is brought to Meereen?" the minstral asked, softly falling into the chair by her side. "A trader from Elyria told me that there are lakes beneath the sea, frozen lakes that the sun has not warmed in a thousand thousand years. He said that there are sea-snakes deep down there that churn the ice and keep it cold. Incredible, isn't it? He said that all creatures of the world live under the lakes, protected by the mer-men and mermaids, never to return to the sun. It is known."

"Truly? How do the merchants get the water from the lakes?"

The minstrel shrugged. "They are clever. Some say they pay more silver than a thousand horses can carry as offering for just one tear of the ice, but when the tear meets the sun, the water flows and is enough to fill a city for more than three years. Some say that they appeal to the goddess of the waves and she gifts them with an anchor for their ships. The anchor can go deep below the surface and breach the layers of the lake, where brave men swim down and harvest the ice before the mer-men return."

Velleya thought on the tales a moment, taking another swig of her tankard.

The minstrel shuffled closer to her, placing her hand on her knee. "Of course, I have heard one other tale. One far more exciting."

"Oh?"

She leaned into Velleya's shoulder and whispered in her ear, "A sea dragon."

Velleya frowned, placing her tankard on the table. "A sea dragon?"

"You have seen the dragons over the pyramid, yes? They are real, fair one. It is known. I have seen."

The minstrel fell back a little, yet was still close enough for the Volantene to smell the scent of lemons on her breath. "One trader said that there was a sea dragon that once roamed the skies, but when the mountains rained their fire so many years ago, the dragon took safety under the waves. The dragon swam deep down, he said, so far that the water vanquished the fire from his heart. He fell asleep under the sea and the water grew cold around him and froze. Sometimes, during a long summer, he rises from the depths, he said, ice breaks and floats to the surface, where it is collected and later sold."

"But there are many tales of how the water is brought here," she added, lying back. "I sing many in my songs. Have you heard of them?"

"Yes, you play the iron harp. It is nice, unmatched I'm sure."

The minstrel nodded, tapping her chin with a ruby-painted fingernail. "Hmm, and what is your name, fair one?"

"I am Vhaera," the Volantene coughed, forcing a small smile.

The minstrel raised a slender brow. "Vhaera? Hmm, a sweet name for a sweet girl, but are you quite sure? I have seen a dwarf lie for an apple once, said he wasn't a thief but plucked the fruit from the stall when the merchant cast his gaze away. I'd believe him over you, sweet one. Your face," she said, leaning in to place her hand over Velleya's cheek, "is far too innocent. The lies are easily betrayed. But, shh, do not worry. My lips will tell no secrets."

The minstrel studied her for a while, gently tipping her head in different angles, ghosting her brows with the lightest of touches. Once satisfied, she brought her fingers up to the hair, where she followed the pattern of the braids, humming as she did so. "Such foreign beauty, pale as the snow far to the west, yet with hair as dark as any true Volantene. And your eyes… who were your parents? It is rare to find eyes so different in shades, so pale. You remind me of…"

Her fingers rested a moment, thumbing only a stray piece of hair from the neck of the girl. Velleya felt her hesitance; shivered where the lady's fingers were - just above her shoulder-bone, where her dragonling rested his snout. Though, the minstrel only stared at the hair, not the small bony head and silver scales beneath. Still, Velleya remained, fearing to move in case her creature was found.

But the minstrel had begun to comb her hair again, and Velleya felt her creature slither further down her back to where her shawl was thickest.

"Your hair is light at the ends," she continued, "do you dye it in the river?"

""No," Velleya whispered, raising her hand to her neck. "Never."

She tried to listen to the questions of the minstrel as her foreign fingers wove through her hair, but she found her focus distancing, shifting to the helical stairway in the far corner of the brothel.

Two men slowly rounded those iron planks, while their robes folded over the stairs like royal veils. The colourful ladies of the brothel and half-concealed sellswords were preoccupied enough to not notice their descent, nor their passing, even as the men spoke in such refined tongues that the accent of their whispers could be heard through the rest of the ruckus.

The first to meet the table was Leviar, though it was the man who stood behind him that acquired the Volantene's attentiveness. Tall and thin, he wore an extravagant robe of golden silk, with the silver lacing of a three-headed serpant embroidered into his sleeves and grey feathers adorning his pouldrons. His skin was tanned, wrinkled over the brow and nose, only to end at the thin line of his lips. The locks from his crown were old, grey and tied into a half knot. There was a sword strapped to his waist, a dull instrument of war with barely any shine from the candlelight, yet the way the elder man hooked his left arm over the hilt made her wonder if it was worth some great value.

Neither seemed to care for the minstrel's antics at first, though once their discussion had ended, it was the elderly man who was the first to speak: at the minstrel, quite sourly. "That's enough, Maelys. Leave the child be."

Maelys' touch slipped from Velleya quite swiftly, though her long nails lingered at the ends, toying with the stray hairs and curling them into thin rings. "I was only caring for the sweet girl, Innaro. Wouldn't want the men here to swallow her whole now, would we?"

The elderly man frowned, rolling back his shoulders and raising his chest. "A novel sentiment, girl, but not needed. Off, away with you. There are more girls here that can use your wiles. This one isn't to be bothered with."

"Isn't to be bothered with, he says," Maelys chuckled, kissing the Volantene on the cheek before rising from her chair. "Come now, Innaro. You might mistake this fair one for someone of importance. Is she important? Worth a coin or two?"

"I'm afraid that isn't any of your business, is it?" asked Leviar, attracting the leonine gaze of the minstrel, who roamed his form quite appraisingly. The corner of his blue lip quirked at the sentiment.

"Even under the veil she attracts attention, a hummingbird to nectar, and she will lay claim to many suitors. At least with my attention, the only trouble she will have, is with me." Maelys frowned, peeking away from the two men to her fascination, but Velleya had merely returned to sipping her tankard, only raising her gaze when either of the three spoke. "Fine, take her from me, if you believe it is just."

She sauntered up to Innaro, long legs and plump hips in sway, and fluttered her lips over his cheek, tickling the bristles. When she drifted away, she cast her gaze to Velleya, smiling sweetly and batting her lashes. It was not long before the light strings of her harp were played anew, but the focus of the harpist was never far from the mind of Velleya.

"I see you've met the brazen lotus herself, Maelys Paan. I originally met the girl in Yunkai and she's been a permanent resident here ever since," grunted Innaro, bowing respectfully. "You may call me Innaro, if you like, or the Old-Man who had the audacity to buy a brothel in the reign of a blasted war, but it's your choice. Most just call me Greybeard. Rolls off the tongue easier after a couple of downed kegs."

Velleya spied the old man wearily, bowing only when he returned to full height. "Pleasure to meet you, ser."

"Huh. Well mannered, speaks well. Where'd you get her, Leviar? Kept her a prisoner in your House of the Unlying or whatever dungeon you have up in Quarth? Or is she an acolyte of your Red God, come to preach about night and death and fire, hmm?"

"It's the House of the Undying, old friend, and no, we did not meet there. Our affair is far too private and we have had a long journey, come far indeed. We should rest and conserve our strength, if you would be so kind?"

Innaro tittered, raising a gloved hand to catch the sharp cut of his thorny jaw. "Private, you say. Good thing you decided to meet in the Brazen Lotus then, our honoured oath is to keep ya' secrets untold, for the right price."

"Have no fear," grinned the warlock, plucking a garnet ring from his sleeve and holding it towards the taper-light. "For I can procure for any price."

His curiosity piqued, Innaro took the offered ring and held it to his left eye, piercing the gem with half a century's worth of scrutiny. It was a beautiful jewel. The garnet glistened; the silver base had been fitted with many holy encryptions and many smaller gems decorated the arms, twinkling when tilted. As far as it could be seen, it was authentic.

Yet the master of the brothel still scowled, seemingly unimpressed by mere appearance alone and decided to crush the jewel into the crook of his cracked, golden teeth. He took a bite, frowning even more when the ring did not split, until a decision had been made. He pocketed the ring and beckoned Velleya and Lavier along.

They were guided far from the chamber of pleasures, up the helical stairway in which they had first stepped upon and into a narrow hallway of red carpet that had doorways of rotted cedar and oak barring the outside from the secrets within. Few claimed the hallway, save for a man or two needing peace to settle the ale in their bellies.

It was the end doorway that Innaaro led them to, unlocked by a bent iron key.

"Here you are," said he, placing the key in the hand of the warlock, "you'll have my private lodging, so long as it stays private."

The chamber was dimmer than the hallway, lit only by a few red candles, their flames still and sentinel in the waxy palettes. There were old, chipped bookcases along the main wall close to the windowsill, with chairs and a rusted escritoire nestled in the far corner. Tattered rugs had been laid across the floor, though the occasional creaking board peeked through and though dust collected in the threads, matting the material into many knotted clumps, the assortment of feather pillows more than compensated for the lack of true finery.

The Volantene girl spied a bed in the next chamber, but was far too tired from her journey to pass up the three bare steps and bend into the arch of the doorway to fit inside. Instead, she quietly perched herself onto the end of a raised dias, only to grasp the edge when she sank into the cushions. Her hatchling's claws dug further into her robe. She felt a part of her dress tear, but no one seemed to notice.

"Stay as long as you need," Innaro continued, "you'll be safe here. You have my word. No one will mention you here or they'll be dealing with me."

Leviar gave an appraising twirl around the chamber, humming to himself in contempt. "Yes, this will do nicely. You are too kind, old friend. I thank you for your hospitality."

"'Course you do and you owe me a lot more debts to come. Now, you'll be wanting an audience with the Khaleesi, yes? The Dragon Queen. I can grant such an audience, though it could be months before either of you get to see her. She has a list, two thousand long, I've heard. Every bastard and girl from the Bay of Slaves to the pyramids themselves are on it. And those who cut corners are often handed to the Unsullied. You know the type I speak, slaves since babes, cut before their grooming. Best advice an old man could give? Wait your turn. Until then, try to blend in, if you can."

Innaro turned his focus over to Velleya, looking her up and down with no hint into his intention. "The girl's pretty enough. She can work here if needed."

Velleya fell paler than goats milk.

She had remained mostly uninformed in the matter of their stay in Meereen, but foolishly never thought that the warlock would conspire against her wishes, in a brothel no less, without her knowing. She could imagine the men at the door; the stain of blood on the bedsheets; the pain in small blacken bruises dotting her legs.

That was when she realised that something had changed in Leviar. It was a small thing: a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a slight squint in his eyes. He remained composed, of course, tall and sentinel, like an oak in the brace of a northern wind. "She is not part of the negotiation, Innaro. I've already told you this. If you need more coin, so be it. Give me half of the day and I will fill your pockets with enough silver that the entire city will hear you clanking down the streets. She will not work for your entertainment."

"What kind of man do you take me for?" the master demanded, striding forward and thrusting his sword-arm out. "I never said she'd be working as a whore, you bastard! I meant as a tavern wench! My own father'd be haunting me if he heard I was letting either of you stay out of the goodness of my heart. No, the deal was that you both pay your due, but, for peace of mind, know you have my word that no harm shall befall her. No man will touch her, not without having a few fingers cut anyway and, if necessary, a shiv to the throat."

The fire in the warlock's glare faded a little, though his rigid, defiant stance did not render. "And what of me? What task would you have me do, hmm? Out with it."

Five fingers curled around the old man's sword, thumbing the silver hilt. It was not in intimidation, but more of a habit in thought. "That is a good question indeed, I hadn't thought much of it. Though I know the debt of a warlock would make for a lot of uses." Innaro gently folded his arms, creasing the serpent insignias into his elbows. "Better left for later discussion, Leviar. For now, make use of the chamber. I will see you at dawn to go over the arrangements."

The master of the brothel had bowed to leave, yet just before his hand caught the door, Velleya spoke out. "I've noticed that there is only one bed. Will another be made before the night?"

"Yes, apologies, girl, but I only need the one bed to lay my head. Pick the floor if you wish. I'll let you both decide on your sleeping arrangements."

The door groaned to a close and the two were left to silence.

"Apologies, dear one, he is known to be stubborn, almost as stubborn as the Meereenese come to think of it." Leviar noticed her attention on the bedchamber and smiled wanly. "I shall take the armchair, if it suits you."

"Thank you," she said, raising her hands and releasing her shawl. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders in long ringlets and she began to gradually comb the knots from the ends. "We've finally made it to Meereen."

"Indeed. How do you take it, with the sights we have seen thus far?"

"I've never really seen much of another city, ser, and I only saw what the nights granted during my stay in Volantis. This city is different, powerful and strange. Yet, I think I might like it here."

"I'm glad. Meereen is a vibrant, ancient city. The higher quarter itself will make our lives far more tolerable."

The warlock stepped over to the old bookcases licked by shadows, while the red candles gutted out by the windowsill. The panels were slightly bent and the shelving was rigid with rot. Still, he perused the selection of tomes, some older, some current, for his leisure, stroking his long fingers along the faded patchwork of the golden-chrome binds and murmuring the titles in different variants of bastard speech.

While he did so, Velleya continued to force the knots apart strand by strand until her hair was detangled completely. Then, she felt movement along her back, cold and prickly. Dragon scales. Her dragonling writhered his way up her back one wing at a time, slithering from the torn fabric of her robe to the rounding of her shoulders, only to climb down and settle on the table nearest to her. That one lacked candles and was near bare, if for a few pieces of crumpled parchment and a discarded ink quill.

She touched the frayed seams of her dress sadly. She had been awfully fond of it and its skirts, now the bodice sagged and hung low down her back like a slit fish net.

Lavier spied the matter out of the corner of his eye. He plucked a tome from the bookcase and scrolled through the pages, but regarded her in kind. "No matter the damage, dear one. You would have had to change regardless. I shall send word to Master Innaro for more fitting attire, one better suited to Meereen's customs."

Velleya made no response, merely tore the front half of her neckline and fastened the threadbare ends around the back of her neck. Her back remained exposed but her front stayed relatively concealed.

Perched happily on the table, her dragonling quietly lapped at the dull scales on his hind legs, nipping into the hardier plates where his skin had yet to shed. Many layers had already flaked off his body like dying leaves, while others had been replaced by smaller, shinier segments that grew beneath, protecting the expanding muscle and bone.

 _Soon they will be hard and strong, as will he,_ thought Velleya as she went to stroke his snout _. He may be small, but he has the strength to last and grow, as shall I with him._

"You haven't given the critter a name yet, have you?" asked Lavier.

Velleya shook her head. "He's not a critter. And no, not yet."

The warlock turned another page. "Shouldn't he have a name? You're awfully fond of him and I will no longer need to keep referring to him as the Critter if he has one."

"Yes, I suppose." Her dragonling lightly nipped her finger and returned to cleansing his scales of decay. She wondered. "Do you know the tongue of the ancient lords?"

"Which ancient lords are we referring to? Valyrian? If so, which, the bastard speech or ancient tongue?"

"Ancient."

"I've read the texts, understand as much as any scholar. Why?"

"Is there a word in their tongue for cold?

Leviar paused in his reading, facial features quizzical. "Pardon?"

"Cold, ser. Is there a word for it?"

He quietly closed his tome, perhaps knowing where the discussion would lead. "There would be I suppose, but that would be a peculiar name to give to a critter of fire made flesh. Surely a more incandescent tone would be more kind?"

"Humour me, ser. What word in the ancient lord's tongue would best describe cold?"

The warlock thought long and hard, pacing between book cases with his tome held firmly behind his back. "The archives I have had the pleasure of studying rarely had any word relating to the cold in High Valyrian. Fire was always mentioned, though the wording changed depending on the context, such as the word for dragon fire, _dracarys_ , was far different from texts relating to the fire of one's enemies, or the ferociousness of their people, etcetera. All very poetic, as was the language, truly. But cold… cold was not an adjective oft used. Remember, the High Valyrians dwelled at the foot of Fourteen Volcanoes, dear one, cold is something they rarely felt."

"But, to sate your curiosity," he added, " the only phrase I can think of is _zirtys_ _perzys_ , meaning _frozen_ _fire_. It was what the High Valyrians named their blades, the finest creations of dragonsteel."

" _Zirtys_ ," Velleya whispered, tasting the name on her tongue. Her dragonling paused in his biting, glancing up briefly with round, doe eyes, innocent and searching. And then he fluttered his wings as if in approval. "That will be his name."

Leviar faltered mid-step. "A-are you quite sure? It'll be odd indeed to have a dragon that breathes fire, only to be known by our enemies as something entirely humours. Unless," he chuckled, "you mean for him to freeze his foes with fear. Ah, I do love hidden jibes! But truly, a dragon aught to have a name reflecting his breed's reputation. Fire, little lass, name him after fire."

 _No_ , thought Velleya softly, as she felt along her dragonling, from his small, rubbery wings to his even smaller scales, where there was no warmth beneath the beating of his chest; where the heart of his fire should have dwelled. _She_ _would_ _not_ _name_ _him_ _after_ _fi_ r _e, for_ _her_ _dragonling_ _was_ _not_ _fire_ _made_ _flesh_.

 _Ziryts_ peeked up from his curled-in state and silently raised himself onto his haunches, craning his wings in and connecting the hooked tips. He was no ordinary dragon, if such a thing could be said. He was as pale as sand and he held clear silver eyes that dilated in the shadows, drowning the glassy reflection with deep, devouring irises that reminded her of the ocean when the moon had lost its lustre.

He strayed from the sun, as did she, preferred to eat raw fish instead of meat burned by a hearth. He was everything tomes foretold and not, outwardly a dragon but with the facts far and astray.

Yet when she observed him anew, a warmth claimed her own chest, one she could not quite describe other than longing.

She lay her palm flat along the table where _Zirtys_ sat, observing how he sniffed the bare ends of her fingers, then rested his snout on the edge.

 _He was not fire made flesh._

 _He was winter._


	3. Friends in Thieves

**.**

 **The Song of Valyria**

 **.**

Chapter Three: Friends in Thieves

 _How had a month passed by so quickly?_

Velleya had wondered that quite often during her employment in the Brazen Lotus, for the brothel was rarely quiet, but that did not make the time pass any swifter. Her hands had become accustomed to the rough texture of a soaked cloth and the exhausting nature of cleaning floors, though she had little else to do other than stare into her wooden bucket of river water for hours at a time, committing to memory how dirty her appearance seemed on the surface. Though in truth it was just the water, filled with the throffy murk of spilled ale and a soiled rag.

 _Had it been a month?_ Last she remembered it was the fifth day of the fourth moon and she had counted the morns and dusks in their tiding; marked the passing by quill and parchment when her hours had not been preoccupied with routinely chores. Two and eight mornings had gone by merrily in the beginning, but then two and eight days had become long, near tedious. Yet a month had passed indeed since her arrival in Meereen and still the city felt so foreign to her.

Her heart silently wept for Volantis.

That was not to say that she did not enjoy the city and its wonders. During the night she would walk along the piers of the Bay of Slaves with _Zirtys_ in her sway and continued to walk until only nature surrounded them.

She often found that he would never leave her side when in the streets of Meereen, staying deathly still when hidden on her back until the last of the houses had disappeared from view and the crossing point had grown farther still.

Only when it came to the sea did he become an inquisitive creature of the night, flushing out scents beneath the rocky shores, nibbling on clam shells by old wrecked fishing boats and dancing along the watery edge with his wings floating on the waves.

He had not yet flown. In truth, she believed he was far too young to do so and supposed there would be a long time before he matched the supposed length and width of the Dragon Queen's dragons. It was rumoured the eldest of hers had grown to the size of a small carriage and was powerful enough to be ridden by the queen herself. There were fewer rumours for the other two, save that they laired in the high quarter, never it was said to see sunlight.

That was if they were indeed in Meereen.

On her moonlight wanders she had tried to see far away shadows in the northern end of the city, hoping to catch a minor glimpse of their beauty in flight by the golden harpies of the grand pyramids. Yet time and time again she was left disappointed for no dragon reared its presence across the summer sky. There was no call other than gulls that echoed down to the harbour.

There must have been dragons somewhere, though. She did not know why. Perhaps it was her bond to her hatchling or the mere difference in the air, but down by the sea she could almost sense the subtle shift in the earth, as if something dwelled deep within the city, chained and bitter.

 _Zirtys_ seemed to sense it as well, often raising his head towards the pyramids with an inquisitive, near fearful leer, if a dragonling could leer.

Perhaps that was why he preferred the open province of sand and shore to the narrow roads. There were no chains there, no cages other than those for the fish and crabs. Just a small land to do as he pleased.

 _A dragon was not made to be chained._

She had had dreams of such things, of great iron shackles and the growl of some ungodly beast birthed in smoke. Never once had her dreams been straightforward, but each time she visited the beach, a small part became clearer.

There was one such night, just before she counted twenty-and-eight nights, that made her dream ever the more understandable. It was during her return to the city, after she had gathered a sustainable amount of cockles from the shore and had fluffed her shawl to the point that her dragonling had been entirely concealed within golden fabric.

The roads were quiet, as they usually had been when drifting through the lower tiers. She had come to know the back roads well, the side roads greater still. Not even the urchins bared her notice, nor did the little birds in the trees spread ill whispers through the evening wind.

The Unsullied guards rarely patrolled her path, instead preferring to guard those in higher districts from the trouble hiding below. Yet once or twice she did notice tanned skin, tight leather and iron plating knocked into the shape of the muscle beneath.

They never paid her notice, merely stepped around her, continuing their patrol as if there was barely any consciousness behind their masks of dented steel. Only law and command.

She ghosted through thin alleyways, floated over steps as if her feet stepped on clouds not stone. Little unnerved her more than the cries of a starving babe; the scurry and patter of sewer rats scratching their bodies along the drains, sharpening their incisors with their claws; and the drunken drawl of a high born man who had wandered too far south, who would eventually fall prey to the city's gloom, never to be found again. And the higher into the city she dared to creep into, the worse those scenarios became.

 _The butcher's block, the fisher's nook, the farmer's cart and then the merchant's stall._

Velleya counted the rows of trading stands in the marketplace, trying to figure out which street she needed to step into next. Her dragonling stirred along her back, digging his talons just a little deeper into her skin. Her steps faltered. Her senses took hold.

"You blundering pig-shit! Do you want us to get caught out 'ere? The Dragon Queen's guards're bound to hear us if we aren't quiet. Then what will we have, ay? Fire and blood, Lod. Fire and blood."

Velleya stared at the torchlight on the horizon, her feet unable to move. _Zirtys_ growled in her ear, his small frame becoming rigid and still. And then he hissed, a low hiss that only she could hear but inspired her need to flee.

Drastically searching the little areas of haven she had, jolting back, left and right, unable to come to a decision, her sight focused on an empty stall and she dove behind a cart of potatoes and cabbage, crawling over to the beaten crates and fish nets on her hands and knees.

The sand felt barbed under her hands, as if each grain had been suddenly sharpened to the keen point of a well wrought blade. She clung to the brittleness as if a life line, smoothing her tracks from the ground and curling herself in to the shelter of discarded merchandise.

The crunch of the sand grew louder, then louder. The night fell away to flame, highlighting the outlines of men along the ground. Velleya crawled to her knees and peeled some of the netting away with her fingers, where through she could see the vibrant, amber flame of a torch just before the stall with five pairs of boots circling its radiance.

One pair was poor and tattered, the leather weathered and holed. It was he who first spoke and speak again he did. "This'll be one for the maester's scrolls. The twin marauders, caught under the queen's unruly justice 'cause one of the blundering fools could never keep his balance! What laughs they'd have at our expense."

"And here I thought you were both professionals," said another, his boots made of finer lace and thread. His accent was refined, harsh but sweet with a tight curl on the words, his r's rolling along his tongue like the low rumble before a tiger growl.

"We are paid for a reason. Why the wise master in Yunkai wanted two rival sellswords to act together, I shall never know, but remember this Westerosi, should you fall out of line, I will more than happily cut your feet from your ankles and stitch them to your cock myself."

Velleya peeked a little further out to see the man with poorer boots. He was little compared to the man by his side, who she supposed was the one named Lod.

He was tall, very tall, with arms as round as the flat end of an oar and chest as sturdy as the third mast of a galleon. He was bare save for a sash of navy over his breeches and a long mantle shielding his shoulders from the cold of the night. But his skin was tight, cracked and a bronze-grey, like it had been rotting for over four nights and was still shedding.

It reminded her of grey scale.

"Thanks for noticing my feet," the Westerosi grinned. "Do I sense a hint of jealousy, Zazlar? Come now, are my devishly handsome looks and cock of legend truly enough to intimidate a member of the Fourteenth Shadows? It sounds like you don't like me."

Zazlar shook his head. The silver bangles of his black beard clinked and clanked. Then, he tipped his head back and spat by the smaller man's feet. "You are not worth my time, Westerosi, and dawn shall rise before long. Off," he said to his men, "to the pyramids!"

In truth, once the men had left the marketplace, their torchlight disappearing within the city's darkness, she should have found her way back to the Brazen Lotus and slept the rest of the hours away in a feather bed. That would have been what Leviar wanted.

But Leviar was not with her. There was only her dragonling and many tempting possibilities. It was in that instance that the rational part of her mind gave way to curiosity. Parting from her hiding place, Velleya momentarily knelt to spy footprints in the dust.

From there she followed, as a child far too curious for her own wellbeing, with the footprints growing deeper and the light of the torch rising ever brighter.

When she finally caught up to them, she noticed that they had trekked beyond the border of the pleasure houses and inn-keeps and up towards the grander tiers of the city, which only intrigued her more. She continued to follow their outlines throughout Meereen, through roads that gradually began to appear old and weathered and up stairways that had sand clinging to the stone.

Ancient holds and chapels began to rise and fall as she past them with many of their higher sections shattering at the pinnacles. And then there were the inner baileys riddled in jagged fractures that had yet to be mended from the last war. Towers once manned had become roosts for variant birds of prey, while the lower keeps remained layered in rubble.

They were the ruins of ghosts. Only the frayed banners of the ancient Meereneese dared to stir, the sigil of the black harpy on gold tapestry flowing so subtly that the harpy looked to be flying, its wings all aflutter.

 _And when the harpy raises its wings and the wind suddenly dies, the talons glide down for the throat._

She studied the tapestry for as long as she could. She left when she lost sight of the mercenaries.

Finally, after the Volantene's legs had begun to tremble and the soles of her feet had begun to burn and bleed from her climb, the mercenaries had reached what they sought: one of the greatest pyramids overlooking the entirety of Meereen. From its square base to its apex the entire height was believed to be over eight hundred feet tall. The rest of the other pyramids in the city did not even match its splendour. Attached to its head was another giant harpy, though from the ground it barely looked taller than she.

Supposedly, the queen resided inside.

The poorer mercenary of the five, who she decided to call Poor-Boots, chose to stare up at the great pyramid rather than ignore it as the other mercenaries did. Eyes of brown flickered over the stone, taking account of how high the walls were and how sloped the stone was.

The climb was near impossible. "You brought us to a pyramid, Zazlar? Well done, I thought you never had it in ya. But how do you suppose we get in?"

Zazlar raised a finger to his lips and pointed down to a low narrow descent that curled into the foundations. "It is not the pyramid we seek," said he, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, "but the catacombs deep, deep down. That is where the Khaleesi keeps her dragons and that is where we shall find our treasure."

 _They are after the Dragon Queen's brood,_ Velleya realised, clutching the wall she hid behind just a little tighter. _Only fools test a dragon, but am I a fool for wanting to follow?_

She was a fool indeed, for as soon as the mercenaries fell into the narrow passage, so did she, disappearing into the line of darkness when the mercenaries threw their torch into the drains.

The walls felt cold against her hands. The floor felt hard and rough. She ceased her wandering only for a brief moment to take off her shoes and tie them to her waist-belt. Then, her feet were free to roam the floor. The sand was smoothe along the pads of her feet. She felt like a tigress within the undergrowth, steadily stalking a sounder of swine.

The deeper she delved, the more restless _Zirtys_ became, often slamming his tail against her back and dragging his talons along her dress. It was only a thin material. She feared losing another garment to his temper. Yet despite his panic he remained quiet, as if in fear of what might happen should he utter any sound.

One question plagued her mind, however, as the walls began to grow mossy with wet lichen and water dripped in gold and red from the leaves.

 _Where were the unsullied?_

She had seen them along the ramparts, black and sentinel along the stone parapets, ever-watchful and ready to defend the queen from invaders. Though, not everywhere. The mercenaries had taken advantage of it as had Velleya, slipping into the cracks in the thinner walls and creeping into the queen's territory without being seen.

Though some of the unsullied were there, she did wonder why there were no more inside the inner bailey, especially when dragons were very close. Surely if they were that precious to the queen, then they would have had at least three men guarding them.

Unless the queen believed the dragons to be dangerous enough to not need her protection.

The longer she delved, the harder it became to guide herself without panic. When the passage split into two then three and four with the voices of the mercenaries surrounding her, she has no choice but to rely on her instincts and walked near blindly where others scaresly trod.

It was not long before her bare feet snagged on an upturned root. Velleya yelped as her entire body was thrown forward. Her skin burned against the stone on impact. Her foot twisted in a painful, unnatural way.

Zirtys leapt from her back to the ground. There he leapt further still to his mother, growling under his breath and snapping at her clothes. In some way he was coaxing her to a stand. When that did no good he squealed and nudged her hand, sniffing if before biting her cuff and dragging her arm back as hard as his tiny legs could muster.

He was only small, but that did not quell his determination. In the end his effort was enough to bring Velleya round from her state.

She quietly raised her head from the floor, though her dark hair draped her pale skin, blinding her more than the natural darkness ever did. Still, after it was brushed away, she began to pat along the ground, ignoring the ache in her foot to instead focus on her stand.

That was until her hand felt something cold and smooth, metallic even. She curled her finger in and knocked it with a slender knuckle, hearing a hollow ping.

 _Odd._

Her fingers felt more, from the crown of the metal to the leather latches fastened into the corners. It was like the beak of an eagle, all sharp corners and keen points, though lacking the golden shimmer that the guards in Volantis held. That was when she realised: it was a half-helm. As she felt along the floor for more armor, she found her hands touching something semi-dry and sticky; a water that had an iron scent.

Her chest pained in dread.

Her hands dared to go a little further out, to feel the crisp cold of more armor – a chest plate. And imbedded into the plate was a pole of wood with an arrow tip. A spear.

Velleya lurched back. She reached out for the wall and scratched her nails into cracks to stand, even though her scraped knees complained and her ankle protested, stabbing her heel with a sharp spark of pain. She fell down but rose again, forcing her weight onto her other leg.

 _Zirtys_ growled at her distress, curling his small head back and snarling with a less than intimidating snarl towards the dead man. The Volantene girl scratched at her temples and forced her breathing to steady. She then dared to touch the dead man once more and pull the spear from his corpse.

The smell of blood filled the chamber. Velleya smothered her nose with her shawl and beckoned her dragonling over with a wave. _Zirtys_ sniffed the armoured corpse once more before wrapping his wings around her legs. His little claws climbed up to nuzzle her neck.

 _By the sun and stars, why is there a dead man? Who drove this spear through his heart?_

Her only answer lay ahead. She knew she should have left the passage and returned to the Brazen Lotus. Her mind begged her to do the rational action.

She could practically hear Leviar's scold in her mind. _Think, dear girl, think! You have a mind for a reason, don't squander your intellect further by falling into the stupid notions of dangerous curiosity. Turn back, before that spear ends up in your chest instead._

She was going to turn back, until she heard the growl of a beast that shook the very foundations of the pyramid. It was a shriek that preyed on fear, that forced it from the depths of even the most courageous of men, twisting them into jittering flesh sacks with near to no sense of themselves.

Her body trembled like a temple gong, shaking each time she was hit by the tongue of what could only be described as an abomination of the Gods, whichever it may have been. She then heard the rustling of chains; the calls of man. The men she had followed. All cocky and full of confidence, perhaps already facing what lay further down the path.

Velleya peered over her shoulder, only to find darkness. But the rattle of chains continued and seemed to lull her into a trance.

One moment she was stood by the corpse of the soldier and the next she was wandering down the final steps of the passage, falling from rationality and into the lair of wonder… and insanity.

"Look, Zazlar, the pay might be good and all but I don't like the way this looks," whispered Poor-Boots as he and his company rounded the last corner to the lair of dragons. "I've read plenty of tales about the ol' dragons, Zazlar. The dragonlings grew to be the size of a fortress! Are you sure these are still little ones? Why would the Dragon Queen lock her beasts away in such a big place if they were no bigger than street cats? Hmm? Smells foul to me is all I'm saying."

"If I was you," muttered Zazlar, his golden teeth bared in a foul scowl, "I would cease to say anything, unless you would want your tongue shoved down your throat."

"You're afraid, I see it in your eye. The one that's not glass, I mean." Poor-Boots shifted from side to side, just to prove he was looking into the correct eye. "There's something you're not telling us, isn't there Zazlar? What did the master in Yunkai _really_ pay you? Five hundred gold dragons? Six?"

Zazlar ignored him, instead turning to direct the two of his men around the base of the lair. He caught the lights of their black armour and grinned even more at the sight of silver drawn into the torchlight. He himself had lit the other four torches, dazzling the foundation of the pyramid in flickering gold.

The head of the Fourteenth Shadows decided to acknowledge the Westerosi once more, only to find the smaller man stroking the thorny hairs over his pointed chin in front of him. "It was seven, wasn't it?"

"You like to play games, do you not, little man?" Zazlar asked, baring down upon him. "This is your last warning, Westerosi, before I test my blade in your foreigner blood. No one pisses on the leader of the Fourteenth Shadows without their head being removed from their necks. Our contract forbade me from killing you, but I promise you this. Try my patience once more, and you shall never leave this catacomb."

The smaller man did not back down. Instead, he seemed to gain courage from the threat, metaphorically rising far taller than the member of the Fourteenth Shadows himself. With a sharp eye and a smug grin, the man with poor boots raised his head and stared his competitor down. "It was definitely seven."

"Bahh!"

Velleya peered round the corner to the dragon lair, holding her spear close to her chest. _Zirtys_ glared through the darkness of her hair, his tiny skull reflecting the torchlight that glazed the inner chamber like a throne room. All fire and golden walls.

And that was when all chatter amongst the mercenaries was suddenly snuffed out. Chains the size of a hound rattled against the sand; wormed through the darkness like tails to a very large serpent. With the rattle of chains came thunder slapping the ground. Claws slunk towards the entrance, brandished in the colours of emerald and bronze.

For it was not just one creature that lurked in the lair, but two.

"Ready the iron nets, men!" Zazlar commanded, raising his sword high to the sudden heat that came upon his skin. It was only when a mawl drifted into the light that the iron nets were thrown. Like twinkling jewels they landed, only on the shoulder of a very well maintained, very round dragon.

 _The rumours were wrong,_ Velleya realised, feeling her throat constrict. _The dragons are not the size of a carriage. They are far larger._

Chaos erupted within the depths of the pyramid. Flame danced across walls - amber and golden waves growling against the sandy stone. Scorched flesh battled with the miasma of dragon flame.

The cries of man soon drowned to a hollow echo, meek compared to the mighty howls of the under-dwelling beasts. One was ripped from his armour, thrown into twin jaws riddled in thousands upon thousands of teeth. Some were thrown against the sand, where their heads were severed from their necks… and fed upon.

Velleya fell back against the wall, clutching her spear tight to her rising bosom. Her heart rumbled in her ears. Two mercenaries fled the lair - their forms faded blurs across her eyes, as the dragon fire consumed the bravest warriors until there was only smoking ash.

One grabbed her shaken form and tossed her forward, forcing her numb feet to dig and sprint. Sand speckled her knees, dotted her cheeks. Firelight fell to darkness, space distorted to narrow tunnels. Stone collapsed to metal and crackling bone under her feet. And then the choking cloud of smog parted with her hands into a clear aired night sky.

Velleya fell to her knees, fanning her neck and gasping for breath. The night stilled around her, quiet and empty like the ocean in the faraway horizon. She could still hear the dreaded dragon roar in her ears. Feel the heated glares of twin beasts on her back.

But the glares there were not from a dragon.

All at once she was thrown from the earth to the pyramid. Her fingers clenched the strong arm holding her rags high. Her tiptoes parried to his dance.

"It seems we have a spy in our mists," had taunted Poor-Boots from his sted. In the night his pale flesh illuminated like bone, while the speckles of red tattered his beard.

It was Lod who held her. She could feel the clusters of dead skin beneath her fingers. Her nails dug deep into the cracks.

Poor-Boots whistled low, nudging her thighs open with an eagle-pommeled dagger. "What do we have here? A pretty little thing? A bauble in this cesspool. Dressed too nicely for a beggar. Must be a messenger, a spy. Tell me little spy, what were you doing in the catacombs? And don't play the innocent lass, little bauble. Silence is only good for the dead."

The dagger soon kneaded her chin. She sensed her skin split under the blade and winced. "Where… is that man who was with you? Zazlar?"

The blade twisted, the glint blinding her left eye. He drew in close, snorting the smoke in her hair. "In the belly of the beast, I suspect."

He plucked a stray curl with a finger, winding it round a cracked nail. She smelt bile on his breath, illness perhaps having already taken his teeth. "Poor lad. Still, his teeth made my cheek ache. Far too much gold. Should've plucked them out of his gob before he roasted alive. Damn shame, that. All the good plunders spoil in dragonfire.

"But, that wasn't an answer to my question, and I do so tire of questions."

Velleya felt her chest knot in fear. She licked her lips, suddenly feeling shaky. "I… collect cockles. From the shore, for my master. I was curious and followed. I truly am sorry."

Poor-Boots withdrew his dagger with a laugh. "Cockles? You hear that Lod? We'll be fat for life with the clams of the sea. Shame I never liked the taste of clams. Not as much as virgin meat plucked with a well-warmed poker. How's that sound to you?"

Lod's own arm quivered from a hearty bellow. His face remained composed, however, void of emotion.

"You, see, little bauble. That may be true, but now you've seen our crime. I cannot help but wonder what we'll do next." Poor-Boots slowly paced around the courtyard, twiddling the point of his blade into the epicentre of his left hand. He withdrew it with a bead of blood on the tip.

In the swish of a hand Velleya was dropped to her knees. She clutched the lower half of her neck loosely, as if one tight squeeze would shatter her into a trillion shards.

The mercenary bent down to her level, rested elbows over scraped knees. "Then it looks like we'll have to take you home."

The girl scowled under her fringe, her brows furrowed in utter uncertainty.

As if to prove himself, he took her hand and forced her to her feet.

All she could utter was a simple, "why?"

The smaller man shrugged. "It'll do you no good being on your own this time at night. We'll take ya home, take a bottle of the best for the trouble, all's well and good and our conscience is safe knowing one more lovely maiden stays pure for one more night."

Velleya took one step away from the pyramid before glancing back, her toes curled over a stone step. "This is no trick? I just saw you try to steal-"

"A dragon? 'Fraid no one will believe you, baubles. It's why you're still alive. Now, less bickering, more walking, aye?"

Together the two mercenaries escorted the young maiden though the streets of Meereen with a dagger close to her back. Throughout the journey she wondered on whether to lie about where she lived, to find another house far from the Brazen Lotus and then make her way home from there. But with the cold press of steel on her skin and the unwavering glare of their stares, she decided that it would be better not to.

By the time she had reached the brothel's front step, dawn had begun to rise in the east. Gulls woke early for morning supper and goats had begun to cry down the streets in preparation for sale at noon. Velleya found herself knocking upon the brothel door before turning back to the two mercenaries with very little to say.

"So, this is what you call home, huh?" asked Poor-Boots with a hint of pity. "Would never have pictured you as a tavern wench. Nothing to be had, I suppose. You take what you can get in this life."

They entered the tavern in a flare of coloured silks, pausing at the bar to take a pitcher of ale between them. Velleya watched the contents pour into each mug quietly, the flow of crimson red reminding her of the blood spilled in the pyramid.

 _Dragonfire, vanquished flesh._

Lod steadied her hand when the ale begun to overflow, the excess pouring from the counter. The maiden apologised and fetched a rag. With the material thick in her hands, she bent to the floor, her fingers instinctly cleaning in purposeful swirls.

She returned to the counter just as the last of the ale flowed into each of the mercenary's pallets. Arms brushed beards and lips, then the tankards clanged against the wood.

"Well, seems we better make ourselves scarce before the landlord opens up," announced Poor-Boots, kicking the stool behind him. He bowed lightly to Velleya. "Kindly gracious it was of you for the drink, but better hide the bottle before you get skinned to the teeth. Gutter rats like us never last long in jobs round here."

Lod grunted in agreement, his shadow a long loom over the poor girl.

"You are just going to leave?" Velleya asked, stepping between them, rag in sway. "You are being awfully gracious for lords who wish to kill me."

Poor-Boots faltered at the entrance, his hand just shy of the handle behind her. "We're not lords, baubles, just men making a livin'. As for your life, the drink was payment. You're free from us so long as the authorities don't know what happened. You aren't going to tell them, are ya?"

She quickly shook her head.

He nodded. "Good. Truth is we have a code, lass. It might not make us the wealthiest mercenaries this side of the world, nor fill our purses, but we sleep easy, we do, and lasses like ya'self keep on living." His gaze shifted across the room, a flicker of amusement softening his haggered face. "We might come back to this place sometime, say our dues and all. This isn't farewell lass, more like… until we meet again."

He cranked the handle and branded the tavern in morning light. Just before the door closed behind him, he bared his hand out, taking hers just as gently. "I'm Dirk, by the way, lass. If you ever find need of us, just follow the raven."

"Follow the raven?" she quoted, batting her lashes at him in silent wonder.

From behind the higher floorboards creaked in the wake of the many. She turned back to the entrance, only to find the door ajar with the mercenaries nowhere in sight.

His words, however, stayed with her for the following nights, as did dreams of death in dragonfire.


End file.
